


You shall not commit adultery

by Mikaeru



Series: The Ten Commandments [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexual Roleplay, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22886038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: Aziraphale is a married woman, but Crowley just can't give up on her love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Ten Commandments [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645069
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	You shall not commit adultery

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I've written it for the Italian challenge Clash of Writing Titans, that this week challenged us (among other prompts) to write something inspired by the Ten Commandments, and which way is better to honour them than silly porn? I'm sure God would be so proud of me. Unbeated as usual, but feel free to pinpoint any error or grammar slaughtering. (also, if out there there's a pious soul that feels the urge to waste their time correcting my stupid fics, I'd be more than glad to offer an helping hand.)

“Angel? Are you there?”

There's a piano in the background – the gentle scratch of the gramophone - and a light yellow scent that tickles Crowley's nose. Aziraphale must have lightened one of her newest candle, of which she can hear the faintest crinkle; she inhales, and a concoction of bergamot and honey warms her inside. Aziraphale is waiting for her in their bedroom, and she can see the spring sun softly bathing her, her fair skin the colour of a nectarine. She's probably reading something (she's keen on poetry, these days, Japanese haiku and Old High German poems), sit with her ankles crossed, the book on her lap, on which Crowley would like to crawl right now, as she always does – her soft thighs the safest place in the world -, but this is not the game they're playing now. She climbs the stairs that creak a little, her heart racing in anticipation. Aziraphale is, in fact, reading (more probably faking it), but she closes her book with an exaggerated bang.

“Crowley!”, she exclaims, straightening her back, “What are you doing here? You told me you didn't have my keys anymore! You know you're not allowed in here! What if Gabriel comes back earlier than usual?”

(“Why would you be married to fucking Gabriel?” Crowley protested, sprawled on the couch, when they were talking about their little game. Aziraphale looked at her, smirking over her cup. That, too, smelled like bergamot.

“Because he's the most annoying being I can think of, and he would make a terrible husband.” She sipped her tea, and Crowley sighed at her most fondly.

“I love how you've avoided saying douchebag.”

“Because that would be improper of a lady.”)

Her voice is shrill, a string of pearls, and her face is outraged – her brows knitted, her lips pink and shiny – but her body does a slight wiggle, as she's excited and playful. She's now at the side of the bed, perfect blond curls framing her plump cheeks, flowing down her shoulders. She's sinfully pretty, all dolled up (lovely mint green nail polish, flower earrings that look new to Crowley), and Crowley feels warm like an Italian august. She's in one of her prettiest nighties, a cream coloured, sheer number that shows the outlines of her hips, of her generous and ample breasts. Crowley wants to instantly get rid of it, lie her down on the bed and devour her entirely, bones and all.

“I know, angel, but...”, there's something desperate in her voice, an act that draws from somewhere inside her stomach, “you have to forgive me, darling, but I can't live without you, I'm going mad, I can't stand it any longer...”

She makes a couple of steps towards Aziraphale's direction, but she flinches, almost insulted. “No!” Her voice is high, tight as a choker, “Don't call me angel, don't call me darling! You're just being cruel, just – devilish! You didn't want me that day, and now I can't be yours! It's your fault!”

Her angel thought about this in great details and, as much as Aziraphale accuses Crowley of being a drama queen, she's not better. She wanted a play, a theatrical performance (and boy, is she good at it, like a silent movie queen), and a play she will have.

“I didn't know I could have had you! You never told me you loved me!”

“Liar! I've told you!”

“When you were drunk! How could I have possibly believed you?”

It's a touch too much, and they both are near breaking character. This would lead to a giggling make-out session, and probably some nice, quiet sex, something easy and sweet, but that's not what they're in for today.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Crowley says, lowering her voice to a murmur, wringing her hands; she has chipped nail polish and smudged eyeliner, to convey a distressed look, as if she hasn't being able to function properly for days. “And I thought you would be happy without me. But I – I can't -”

“You can't barge in as you like, Crowley,” her voice is almost wet, and her eyes are sad and fierce. She would make such a stellar career at the local theatre. “I'm a married woman, now, and my husband is very jealous of me. He doesn't approve of... you.”

“If your jerk husband doesn't like me it means I'm doing it right. Why is that?”

Aziraphale turns her head away, hugging herself. “He's aware of... our past.”

In this alternate universe, they have meet at university, through mutual friends, (Crowley had called her angel the first time as a way to mock her blond hair and big, innocent eyes, but she had been so deliciously flustered and pleased that the nickname had stuck) and have been in love since then, and they have given in to carnal desires multiple times during the years (Crowley, who was pretty invested in their background story, thought about fucking in a dorm room, on a bench in a silent park, in the back of the school's library; and in the bathroom at their favourite afternoon tea place, and in a cinema, lights out and loud popcorn munching); but Aziraphale was a good Catholic girl, and couldn't admit her feelings (“Just like the real thing, then.” “Be nice, dear.”) and, obviously, couldn't talk to her parents about Crowley, so she forced herself to love Gabriel, an obnoxious preacher her neighbour that has loved her since they were kids, and who promised her a bottomless happiness. But he turned out to be a cold, distant husband, who didn't share interests with her and only wanted to get her pregnant; but Aziraphale was taught that that was a common part of a marriage, and that she could be happy he was a good provider and didn't hit her. But Crowley, obviously, couldn't give up, as her love was so deep an ocean couldn't hold it.

(“How come are we still Crowley and Aziraphale? Shouldn't we use, like, more feminine names? Like, I don't know, Zara?”

“Would you like to be Antoinette?”

“... I don't think so.”

“We're still Aziraphale and Crowley, then. You seldom call me by my name anyway.”)

“Then he shouldn't treat you like that, and leaving you all alone on a Sunday afternoon. Where is he anyway? Surely nowhere important. He should be right here, worshipping you as you deserve.”

“Oh, Crowley, don't be blasphemous. You know we can only worship God.”

“And you damn well know I don't worship any-fucking-one expect you.”

There's something violent and furious in her voice, something made of blood and ashes, and Aziraphale can sense it, and she's almost moved by it. She visibly wants to give up, to take her wife in her arms; but the game is still on.

“You're not thinking straight.” (Crowley restrains herself to reply “Well, duh, I'm thinking gay,” lest she wants Aziraphale to miracle a brick to throw at her face) “We – _can't_ , I'm a married woman, I can't live in sin anymore -”

“How is our love a sin?”, Crowley replies, feeling in a 1980s' manga, full and tears and (she hopes) sweet and dramatic kisses. Oh, they both live for this. “Your God is a fucking tyrant child, if He doesn't allow us to love each other, and you know that!”

“Stop!”, Aziraphale shrieks, and starts crying, and Crowley's heart is breaking, just a little, because this very sight is poisonous to her. “You can't talk like that! I can't be with you, it's not right, you can't give me what I want!”

“You don't know what you want.” She takes a step to her, and Aziraphale doesn't move, this time. She cups her face in her hands, their foreheads touching. Aziraphale's cheeks are shiny with tears. “But I know it: you want to spend your days reading and eating and going window shopping for houses you would never live in. You want to spend your Sundays in pyjamas, eating milk chocolate, and you want to stay in Takarazuka for a month, and then Boston and New Orleans. You like big, buzzing cities, because you want to be left alone. You don't like living in the middle of fucking nowhere, playing the pious little housewife surrounded by nosy neighbours who gossip about your womb. I can give you everything you want and more, my angel. We can go off together.”

Crowley's heart is beating against her eyelids, inside her throat. She remembers when she said it the first time, the despair in her veins, the hungry mouth in the pit of her belly. But now Aziraphale is clinging to her, crying on her chest. She feels blessed, surrounded by love.

“Leave him.”

“Oh, Crowley, how can I? He's my husband, he will -”

Crowley lifts up her chin; her eyes are spring lakes. “We'll run away and nobody will ever find us. I have money and I have connections. I know people. Angel, just say yes, please, just say yes.”

(“Are you some sort of spy, my dear? Are you going to blow up our poor house?”

“Hey, you don't have to sound so smug about it! This is my roleplay too, and if I want to be the spy who loved you, damn straight I will be!”)

“Oh, Crowley, my dear girl...”

“Please, my darling, I will make up for all the time I've wasted, if you'll have me. Please, please.”

And Aziraphale finally kisses her, presses her body against her, arms thrown around her neck. The kiss is deep and meaningful, full of promises, like it's the first time they've seen each other in years. Aziraphale allows Crowley to gently guide her on the bed again, allows her to spread her legs. She's delicate and sweet, she's melting under her eyes. Crowley kisses her neck, hungry, all teeth and tongue. Her wife's moans stick on her skin.

“I love you, my darling angel, I love you so much I don't have enough words for that.”

Aziraphale chuckles, gently strokes her cheek. “You never had a way with words, sweetheart,” she smiles. Crowley laughs softly, nodding.

“Then let me show you. Arms up, darling.”

The nightie slides off her effortlessly, and then it's forgotten at the feet of the bed. Aziraphale is smooth and flushed under her, skin singing and waiting for her lips, and Crowley pepper it with kisses, slightly dragging her canines, making her shiver. Aziraphale was made to be served, and Crowley was made to serve. (she has sometimes wondered if She had that in mind, when She born them, if She made their shapes fitting on purpose) Crowley's mouth trails from the delicate line of her jaw to her collarbones to her belly, that wiggles under more purposeful kisses.

“I've always loved how soft you are,” a kiss, a bite, a lick, as she's savouring her, “I can't wait for the moment I can properly spoil you with the most delicious desserts, fill your belly with scones and cream and homemade jam.”

A powdered, faint laugh. She's so pretty, so darling, her face lightened up like a dawn. “Don't make promises you can't keep.”

“Scout's honour, angel.”

They kiss again, and then Crowley's mouth in between her legs, and she finds her already, thoroughly wet. She inhales her scent, doesn't say anything (this Aziraphale is innocent, too pure, for any kind of dirty talking or embarrassment, so she keeps her mouth shut), starts licking her, leaving her knickers on. Aziraphale arches her back, her voice crimson and high-pitched, one of her hands in Crowley's hair, legs on the shoulders. She's raw and exposed, and loves every moment. She's coming in seconds, having been on the verge of an orgasm way before Crowley has started to touch her. (her angel is always so very sensitive, but in female form she's liquid) Crowley kisses her wetness, where the thigh meets with it, kisses her stomach again. Aziraphale is panting, blissed out and slightly trembling. Crowley strokes her hair, her nose, kisses her closed eyelids. “I could drink you up,” she whispers against her neck. “Can I make you come again, dove? Are you up to it?”

She nods, wordlessly, eagerly, and Crowley knows she's too oversensitive to being touched again, but she also knows that her angel doesn't care, and that she likes it when it hurts a little. She sneaks a finger between her legs, making a lewd sound that draws a piercing cry from Aziraphale. “Oh, dear!”, she exclaims as she covers her face with her hands. “I'm so sorry, I'm so shameful!” Crowley kisses her knuckles, so damn entertained by this fresh snow version of her angel, naïve as she maybe was the first day she stepped on Earth.

“There's nothing to be ashamed of, darling, your body loves me as I do.”

She starts caressing her walls, slowly scissoring her. This version of Aziraphale has an aversion to penetration – that's because she wants Crowley to play just with her clit, curious about that kind of orgasm. So she rubs it with the pad of her finger, licking her breasts, sucking her nipples. Delighted ripples shake Aziraphale's body, who is groaning and moaning, voice slightly pained.

“You're doing so well, you're so, so pretty for me...” Her words are rounded around the edges, honey-coloured.

“Oh, I can't, Crowley, I can't...”, she fakes, petulant, “please...”

“I know you can, my love, you're going to come for me, you're going to feel so good, so empty and light...”

There's such a deep devotion (something beautiful, holy, untouchable) that leaves Aziraphale undone as she comes. She clings to her wife's neck, as the second orgasm floods her body, the contours of it like a dam under attack. She's left silent for almost a minute, as Crowley leaves kitten kisses all over her upper body.

“You need no husband when you have me, angel,” Crowley smirks, biting her ear, making her laugh. “Are you okay?”, she asks then, checking her face, but Aziraphale is still full of weightless love.

“You said something about scones and jam...”, she mumbles, eyes still closed. She curls against Crowley's chest, sleepy and warm.

“Yes, I did,” Crowley laughs, “coming right away.” She snaps her fingers, and then there's a tray on her lap. She delicately tears up the scone, spread clotted cream and jam over it, and feeds it to her wife, a bite at a time. An array of pleased noises curls around Aziraphale's mouth, still boneless and floaty, until she drifts to sleep; through the years she has learned the simple pleasure of a good sleep, especially after sex. Crowley sighs, feeling needles against her eyes; she loves her something nameless, savage, relentless. She plays with her hair, fingers through curls miraculously still in perfect shape. She kisses her forehead, miracles them under the duvet, and holds her for hours, until the night blooms, full of stars and rest.


End file.
